


The Stomach for Killing

by romanticalgirl



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something must be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stomach for Killing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 2-1-10

“Shut up, Ray.”

Ray snaps his mouth closed, not saying a word. It’s not often Brad’s voice has that particular tone in it, but there’s no chance Ray won’t recognize it. “Who?”

“Millson and Windsor. Harvey and Dugger are going home minus a few body parts each.” Brad rubs his jaw, the white-blond stubble rasping against his palm. “Ambush.”

Ambush means a lot of things to all of them, different things to each of them. But too often it means this. More and more it means this. “Sundown?”

Brad nods and Ray moves out of the camo-netting. There’s a lot of work to be done.

**

Warriors burn their dead. They burn shrouds to symbolize the life lived and left behind. Campfire is an engraved invitation to their enemies, so they all sit around an empty pit in silence. There are supposed to be words spoken, but no one seems to know what to say. Too many. Too young. People die in war, the wrong people, but they sign up anyway for all the reasons in the world except for this one. No one signs up to die.

Brad clears his throat like a round going off in the silence. Rudy lights a match and tosses it into the pit. The flame, like too many of them, dying before its time.

**

“Don’t ask, don’t tell is some solid fucking bullshit.” Ray slams his fist against the steering wheel. “Think about it. How do people react to death? Dick Businessman is driving home from his nine-to-five and he sees an accident, an ambulance. Red and blue lights and no fucking sound. He knows people are dead, so he goes home to his wife and fucks the shit out of her.”

“Does that mean he’s having sex in her ass?” Trombley interjects. “Because that’s gross.”

“Fucking Trombley,” Ray shakes his head. “How are you even fucking real. Also, shut the fuck up. I’m making a point.”

“Bullshit,” Brad snaps. “You’re just trying to drive us all crazy.”

“That’s my secondary goal, Colbert.” Ray turns to look at the Reporter, ignoring Brad’s terse command to watch the fucking road. “They put all of us on the ground here, charged up and armed, filled to our fucking eyeteeth with testosterone. They tell us to kill and we do and we get killed and so all we have is sweat and death and the closest thing to life-affirming sex is our right hand or the guy watching our six.”

“Fuck you if you think you’re having sex with me,” Trombley spits out.

“I think that’s kind of his point-” the Reporter starts, but Brad cuts him off.

“Ray, you actually try to have sex with anyone here, besides maybe the liberal pussy reporter, it’s going to be life- _ending_ , not life-affirming.”

“I’m just saying. You don’t let ‘em be who they wanna be and you end up with shit like My Lai.”

“Ray.” Brad’s voice is on the edge again, right at the point where Ray’s pushed too far. “Shut the fuck up.”

**

Ray’s half asleep behind the wheel, the hook clipped to his blouse. He can hear the unnatural silence of sleeping Marines almost as loudly as the conversation on the other side of the vehicle. There aren’t any lights save for the stars overhead and the distant orange ember of some officer with a real fucking cigarette, so Ray can’t see anything, but he can hear just fine.

“It happens, Brad.”

“Thank you for your insight, sir.” Brad’s the only one who can get away with being a complete smart-ass to the LT, and that’s not even all the time, but apparently Fick’s feeling generous tonight.

“Would you like platitudes instead? Pithy sayings? I’m sure the Corps has something more meaningless I can say.”

“Friendly fire, Sir.”

Fick’s teasing tone disappears with his sigh. Ray can picture him, looking at the humongous sky, anywhere but at Brad. “It happens.”

“It shouldn’t.”

Ray closes his eyes as Brad climbs into the Humvee and shuts the door. He can see the shadow of the lieutenant in the window. “You’re right, Brad. It shouldn’t. But that doesn’t mean it won’t.”

**

Ray hands Brad a cup of Rudy’s coffee and squats down beside him. “You know what’s fucked, dude? In the states we hardly ever use the fucking Q. And when we do, it’s always followed by U, right? Come over here and there are fucking Qs everywhere and no Us in sight. That’s just jacked, man.”

“Do you just not have any real shit to think about, Ray? Is your brain just so completely devoid of real and valid thought that you have nothing but utter bullshit to spew at me?”

“It’s a valid linguistic question. Statement. Whatever.”

“It’s _bullshit_ , Ray.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” He sips his own coffee, watching as Brad tosses the dregs of his out into the sand. “You know what I think?”

“You don’t think.”

“I think if you’re dead, it doesn’t mean shit who killed you.” His coffee tastes like ass and sand with a hint of chocolate. “It doesn’t make it right,” he amends before Brad can say anything. “But it also doesn’t change the fact that you’re dead.”

He waits in silence for the long moments it takes until Brad nods once and stands up. “Quick fucking off, Person. We’ve got shit to do.”

Ray scrambles to his feet. “Yes, sir.”  



End file.
